


Presto

by fenerkulesi



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenerkulesi/pseuds/fenerkulesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire and Jehan are vampires. Jehan likes to go to classical music concerts, and he always gets Grantaire to go with him. Grantaire thinks this one is as unremarkable as the others, at least, not until he watches the concert end with a blond violinist that leaves him captivated.</p><p>(Grantaire will never get the taste of fire out of his mouth after tonight.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Presto

“Come with me tonight, he said. It’ll be fun, he said. When is it _ever_ fun?”

He’s muttering under his breath, and he knows he was overheard, though he still hasn’t decided whether or not it was on purpose. It’s really not that clever, not to mention way too overused, but Grantaire doesn’t give a good goddamn. He can _feel_ Jehan’s eyes on him and he puts his feet up on the chair in front of him.

Jehan rolls his eyes. “It hasn’t even started yet.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes right back. “So then explain to me why I’m here.”

“Can you imagine me bringing Bahorel?” Bahorel, Jehan’s current plus-one; even better, one of them, too. Grantaire likes him, a lot more than he thought he would given Jehan’s usual type, but that doesn’t stop him from shuddering before the flask gets to his lips. He idly looks around the theater, and he can _hear_ Jehan’s smirk. “I didn’t think so.”

Grantaire takes a few sips, and gets more comfortable. The seats are nicer than he’d expected. The orchestra starts to tune up. “And you thought I would be a good substitute? I’m sorry, but do you or do you not remember that time in Vienna?”

Jehan’s voice is cold. “We are _not_ talking about Vienna.”

Grantaire snickers. “I’m going to take that as a yes.” The artist part of him can appreciate that the theater itself really is quite lovely, though he’s never understood why they were so elaborate when people came, supposedly, for what’s going on on the stage.

Before Jehan can say anything else, the concert starts. He’s not sure what the point of this is, except it involves featured artists or something else he doesn’t care about. It gets too loud at exactly the worst times, so sleeping is out. He’s pretty sure Jehan would actually start to skin him right there if he pulls out something else to do, so that’s a no. He sighs, and watches, and listens. There’s something about the performers, and he thinks he can get why people would come to see this. Maybe.

It doesn’t seem like that long before the first half is over, and he’s been looking forward to the intermission more than he thought. He’s managed to sleep through it when Jehan comes back, more lively for sure than he’d been when he’d left - which had been when, now that he thinks about it? Grantaire studies him, then “Here? You? Really?” Jehan smiles, far too sweet, and says nothing.

He spends the second act much the same way as he did the first - alternating between liking it and being indifferent, and wondering how much time had passed since the performer did something awesome, by music standards, or how much time had passed in general since the second half started. There’s been a lull each time two of the performers switched. This time, he barely hears Jehan murmur, “Oh, I think you’ll like this.” When Grantaire quirks an eyebrow, Jehan turns to him, very seriously, and nods. “Yes, I don’t doubt it. It’s the last one.” Grantaire laughs. Jehan shushes him, grinning. “Watch,” he says, and okay. Fine. Challenge accepted.

He’s cute, this new guy. Their being at the back of the theater didn’t matter; he and Jehan can still see everything as if they were right in front. Does he not know what a tie is, is Grantaire’s first thought. There’s something in his eyes as he glances around the room; Grantaire can’t quite put his finger on what it is, but it’s captivating. Cute? No, more than that, now that he’s gotten a better look. Jehan was right; he can appreciate a pretty human. Then he starts playing, and _oh._

Grantaire wants to drain him dry.

His fingers twitch. He wants a brush, part of him mixing the colors already to get them just so. He’s not even listening, just watching. His world is rich brown and fiery gold and he can’t look away. It’s only a rather insistent tug on his arm - well, okay, not tug, more like trying to rip it off - that drags him out of it. Well. Damn.

“Pull yourself together, you idiot,” hisses a voice in his ear. Jehan’s, of course, though it takes him a second to remember. He doesn’t comply. “We’re not the only ones here.”

He complies. “You could have mentioned that sooner,” he (barely) whispers back.

“I didn’t know until I started to drink.” Jehan flips his braid over his shoulder. “She wanted to share. I didn’t.”

Grantaire just stares at him. “You’re way too okay with this.”

“This is neutral territory. We’re fine.” Jehan glances back at him. “Just be careful. I’ve seen him a few times. He has friends that know about us.” Grantaire’s gaze turns incredulous. Jehan can hear the unspoken question and shrugs. Nonchalant. _Asshole_. “He does a lot with a political group. Come with me the next time I go to one of their meetings.”

Grantaire decides to ignore him. He turns his attention back to the stage, and a bowstring has broken and it’s almost funny to see it waving around like some kind of banner. It’s over before he knows it, and he watches him take his bows as the audience applauds. He doesn’t join them, but he stands up when they do to applaud all the performers - as you do. Whatever. He has a mission.

Jehan’s hand on his arm stops him before he can go off. “Enjolras.”

“Bless you.”

Eyeroll. Again. He’s been getting that a lot tonight. “His name. Enjolras. And before you go back there, it was Elgar’s Violin Concerto in B Minor, third movement.” Grantaire stares at him. Right. Like he’s going to remember any of that. Jehan sighs. “I know I don’t need to tell you this, but make sure you don’t do anything stupid,” he says, and shoos him off.

It takes a while to get down to the stage and find out where he’s supposed to be going - not difficult, because he can be very persuasive when he wants to be. There’s nobody down there when he gets there, well, nobody at his particular destination. And, make that almost nobody.

He was right, earlier. Just cute doesn’t begin to do it justice. Grantaire is pretty sure he’s - Enjolras is - the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, even more than _them_. Grantaire watches him as he puts his violin away. He’s calmer than he’d been onstage; that piece had been pretty intense but it’s the opposite of just. Everything. Grantaire had been expecting all actual fire god, all the time. For some reason. Enjolras looks up when he hears Grantaire approaching, fastening the violin case, and Grantaire stops. “You, uh. You were really awesome tonight.”

Enjolras blinks. “Thank you.” Grantaire doesn’t move. Soon, Enjolras’ eyes narrow, studying him. “Is that all?”

There’s a bit of a bite in it. Go figure. That’s what he reacts to. “Should I be singing your praises from the highest rooftops, prima donna?” His eyes are blue. Really blue. Chartres blue. He swallows. Much prettier than his own light brown, _sunlight through a glass of whiskey,_ Bahorel had called it. Why is he thinking about that now.

Enjolras’ gaze hardens. “What did you just call me?”

Grantaire tilts his head, doesn’t think. “It’s true, you know? I’ve known you for about thirty seconds and I can tell that much.”

Enjolras’ gaze becomes a full-on glare. “Why are you back here?” There it is, that passion again. Humans are deaf, can he really not hear how _loudly_ his blood is singing?

“Why do you think?” he asks, and without meaning to throws everything he can behind it. He doesn’t realize it until after he does. _Shit_. At first he thinks it isn’t going to work, which would be so perfect; he doesn’t know why he didn’t see that sooner. It’s been known to happen, humans being able to resist them. They’re incredibly rare, once-a-century kind of rare, and the worst thing possible. It’s just his luck that Enjolras would be one of them. Grantaire can watch him fighting with himself. He’s beginning to panic, but. Then. It does. It works. He watches as the fire in Enjolras’ eyes changes form, from anger to lust.

It affects both of them. He can feel his fangs growing, can taste the venom that will make it as euphoric for Enjolras as the look on his face wants it to be. Grantaire looks around, spots a bench nearby, and maneuvers them over to it before starting anything. He won’t support both of their weight while he’s feeding, this he knows for certain, and he’s not going to do this against a wall. So. Bench it is.

It isn’t hard to get him on his back, and get over him. He holds Enjolras down, waiting for his mouth to finish before he does anything. He can’t remember it taking so long before. He won’t forget how he sees him now - splayed out beneath him, face flushed, hair spread out, some part of Grantaire refuses to believe he’s only mortal. Grantaire runs a hand through his hair and grins to himself; it really is as soft as it had seemed. Enjolras has only been watching him, eyes blown dark, and the instant Grantaire loosens his hold, brings himself up to kiss him. It’s rash, messy, and Enjolras cuts his lip on his fang when Grantaire remembers breathing is a thing humans need to do. Enjolras elects to ignore it, and Grantaire almost wants to let him. Instead he runs his tongue over it, tasting it sealed, and it’s enough. He didn’t need the time before he begins to kiss down Enjolras’ jaw, down his neck until he finds the perfect spot.

His fangs pierce Enjolras’ neck, he gasps and Grantaire _wants_. He sucks at the wounds, lightly, getting a taste before he drinks. He swears he’s burning himself; he’s pretty sure humans aren’t supposed to have liquid fire running through their bodies. Enjolras is mewling as he does it, his fingers trying to grip tighter, begging for Grantaire to _drink_ when he can make words, and Grantaire drinks. Enjolras is moaning, sighing, and it’s much better music than what he’d played not even an hour ago. Grantaire already can’t get enough. It’s only a few seconds before he pulls away; he has to before he won’t be able to stop himself.

He seals the wounds, turning Enjolras slightly as he pulls away. Enjolras watches him, blissed out, and then the enzyme works and his eyes slide shut and he’s out. Even sleeping, he’s radiant. Grantaire makes sure there’s no blood on Enjolras’ neck, and leaves, cleaning himself up as he goes. This, this is something to take his time with. It won’t be difficult, not if he takes Jehan up on his offer. He runs his tongue over his teeth, savoring the taste. He knows Enjolras won’t see the marks, and he’ll think it was a dream when he wakes up. They always do.

(Later, Grantaire will realize he wasn’t as elated to drink from him as he’d thought. Later, he’ll hate himself more just for doing it. Later, he won’t be able to look at Enjolras without being sick with guilt.

For now, he’s on top of the world.)


End file.
